by Elin Gregory
The armed man edged back until his head was level with the door jamb and he reached behind him to crack the door open and peer out. "Your protector is engaged elsewhere," he said. "So be still. Soon the train will slow, there is a crossing and a curve. You will jump."
"We will do no such thing," Ma said, her voice breaking to an anxious squeak. "Even at ten miles an hour we could break a leg - or our necks. It's a ridiculous idea."
Slowly the man lowered the muzzle of his gun to point at Miles's knee. "Not ridiculous, a chance worth taking, or would you prefer I cripple your young lady now and make you jump after?"
"My husband will be back at any moment."
"But he will not be expecting me. Or my gun. Do you care at all for him, or are you happy for him to be shot?"
"You'll have to put a bullet through me first," Miles spat. "And that would give him time to break your neck."
"And then people will hear the bang," Ma added, "and come to see what's happened!"
"Ladies, you disappoint me. I thought you would have more sense than that."
Miles had been listening closely, weighing the emphases the man put on his words, the vowel sounds, the slight buzz on the 'th', and so he replied in French. "We have sense. We know, do we not, Maman, other people will be confused and not wish to believe what they heard? They will ask each other, 'was that a gunshot?' and meanwhile this imbecile, here, will have forced you off the train."
The French agent scowled, stepping forward, and the barrel of his gun wavered as he changed his point of aim again. It would have to do. Miles lashed out a hand, flicking the barrel of the weapon up to the ceiling, then forcing his thumb in behind the trigger. He closed his fist over barrel and hand, resisting the efforts to shake him off, and followed up with an attack, long practiced, of knee to crotch and bunched fingers to the hollow below the Adam's apple. The man's stiff collar protected his throat and he began to fight back. Ma shrieked for help in three different languages. Miles lost his breath as a fist caught him under the ribs and the heavier body began to bear him down. Briers always said that Miles would be outmatched hand-to-hand.
"Basically, my darling, you don't have the reach or the weight," Briers had said, helping him up for the third time. "In other words, you don't take a ballerina to a barn dance. Keep out of range and do your best to shoot the bastards."
Briers had hurt him worse than this while sparring. Miles spat out a word that well-bred young ladies didn't normally admit to knowing, butted at his opponent's chin hoping he might have a glass jaw, grabbed for his balls and wrenched.
The man let out an anguished croak and hit Miles again, this time so hard that he lost his breath and felt his knees begin to give, but he didn't let go of the gun. Dimly he was aware of the door opening and a fast-moving figure darting in and interposing himself between the gun and Ma.
"Put the gun down. Oh Christ, no, don't shoot. No," someone shouted, a familiar voice but not ... there was something wrong with it. Miles caught his breath and tried to get his priorities straight. He kneed his attacker again and dodged a blow to the face that would probably have broken his jaw.
There was a loud crack and the fellow went limp, his weight tearing the gun out of Miles's grasp and nearly dislocating his thumb.
"Ow, damnation," Miles said, cradling his hand and hunching over his sore ribs.
Ma was crouched in the corner, barely visible behind Mr Lacroix and the elderly priest peered at the French spy around edge of the book of sermons he had hit him with.
"Language, Mi-Millie." Ma, as ever, rose magnificently to the occasion. "Thank you so much, M Lacroix, Father."
"My pleasure, ma'am," Lacroix said. He let out shuddery breath and nodded to the prone man. "Shall I get some help to deal with this?"
"Oh, if you would, dear boy," the priest said, and waited until Lacroix had gone before directing a sidelong and anything but fatherly grin in Miles direction. He raised an eyebrow and said, "And you, gnädige frau, it's a pleasure to see you again."
"Oh my goodness," Miles breathed, suddenly even more nervous. "Falk?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Briers
Jonah Rudd was a menace, Briers decided, He'd caught up with him just as Briers finished a pass along the coach nearest the baggage car and seemed intent on, as he put it, shooting the breeze.
"Just a smoke," he suggested, "they can manage without you for a little longer, can't they?"
Under other circumstances Briers might have thought he was being picked up, but Jonah's conversation was full of allusions to Hollywood and the plentiful 'tail' that might be found there. "These starlets are so ambitious," he said with a grin and a spread of the hands. "What's a man to do?"
Briers could have made some suggestions to do with acting like a decent human being and keeping one's trousers buttoned, but merely nodded to show his disinterest and pointed to a particularly fine cow in a meadow. "We're importing cheese at the moment," he said. "Got to see if we can interest the restaurants in Belgrade in good old English Stilton and Wensleydale. I suppose we're all peddling our wares in different ways?" He was, he was sure, the very picture of the earnest, humourless and upright young Englishman that Jonah would have seen in the movies.
"I guess we are," Rudd said with a sigh. "By the way, I saw you with your wife and her mother at lunch time. They are a spectacular pair. The camera loves blondes."
Briers knocked out his pipe on the edge of the window and put it back in his tobacco pouch. "It certainly does. Millie and I went hiking near Zermatt last year and we took a camera, a nice little Zeiss. I got some snaps of her against the mountains. The air is so crisp and clear, and with the Zeiss lenses they came out a treat. What sort of cameras do you favour for your publicity stills in the movie business?"
"American ones," Rudd answered then fell silent as a couple of ladies went past, be-furred and arm-in-arm. "European women are so poised," he added. "Like they've seen it all and don't give a damn. Such a challenge."
Personally Briers thought not giving a damn about Jonah Rudd was a good idea and really felt for those girls who put their careers, with or without their persons, in his hands.
"Indeed," he said. "And I had better get back to my ladies - "
"No rush, is there? It's a hard thing when a man isn't the boss in his own home. You have to let them know who's boss."
It was a while before Briers could detach himself from Rudd, whose slimy clinging ability brought to mind a lamprey. Each time Briers made a move to leave, the man stepped in his way. It was really annoying, and Briers was contemplating resorting to overt rudeness, but then it occurred to him that Rudd was just the type of person who always had to end a conversation on his own terms. Once Briers swallowed his distaste and forced himself to engage with the conversation, commenting on the grace and beauty of a music hall artiste - acrobatics and singing, her turn singing 'Oh, Oh, Antonio' while standing on her head and doing the splits had to be seen to be believed - it was only a few moments before Rudd felt the need to be elsewhere.
"My ladies will be missing me," he said and oozed away. Briers gritted his teeth, waited until the man was out of sight, then headed for his own compartment, seething. His mood wasn't improved as he saw that something had gone very wrong.
The corridor was filled with passengers, including the gang of uproarious army officers who were bouncing off the walls with excitement. He had to claw his way past them, shouting orders in his most idiomatic Serbian that had them bracing to attention purely by reflex, though they were breathing down his neck as he flung his compartment door open.
He saw Lady Siward, red-faced and bright eyed but unharmed; the stocky individual who had been paying too much attention to Miles's ankles prone on the floor with M Lacroix kneeling on his back and restraining him with his own necktie; Miles, thank God, being supported by the old priest who turned and smiled and...
"Oh dear God," Briers said.
Miles let out a wail and flung himself into Briers’s arms, mu
ttering a very fast account of what had happened between great whooping sobs.
"Bless you, my child," the priest said patting Miles's shoulder. "You're safe now."
Briers bent his head to hear what Miles was saying then grabbed and gathered Lady Siward up too.
The soldiers swirled around the compartment, exclaiming loudly about the perfidy of men in suits. Briers made no protest when they grabbed the limp body. They had obviously assumed that the fellow had been overcome with lust and had attempted an assault, and discussed hurling him from the train. Briers was of half a mind to allow them to do it, but instead insisted they fetch an attendant and arrange to have the man restrained - preferably well out of sight and sound of the rest of the passengers.
"I'll go with them," Lacroix promised, "because, while I wouldn't like to think that there might be an accident - "
"There could still be an accident," Briers agreed. His hands were twitching with the need to find out how Miles and Emily had fared and he was desperate to get them to himself; however it took maybe twenty minutes of fast talking, another hysterical breakdown from Miles - this time in his mother's arms - and a big tip to the army officers, before the compartment cleared.
Naturally, because that's the way Briers's luck was obviously running, Falk sat down and made himself comfortable.
Briers stared at their newly-acquired spiritual advisor.
"I suppose I should thank you too," he said. He supposed it was ungracious to unbutton his jacket to give easier access to the gun holstered in the small of his back. He might not need it, but one just never knew with Falk.
Falk smiled. "It was the least I could do. And really you should be thanking Mr Lacroix. Very sharp hearing, that young man. Perhaps we should make formal introductions: I am currently travelling as Father Guiseppe Falcone."
"Nice one," Briers grinned. "Brian and Millie Carstairs, and this is Emily Stonehouse."
"Charmed, I'm sure," Lady Siward said as Falk took her hand and gave her a sharp little bow. "Should I assume, Father, that you are in a similar business to - er - Brian and Millie?"
"Surely not, madam. I am merely a humble parish priest returning to my flock after visiting an old friend from the seminary."
Miles had straightened up and was applying a handkerchief to his tear-stained face - he was getting far too good at that crying-to-order business for Briers's comfort. He said, "Father Falcone is deadly with that big book of his, almost as though there's something very heavy inside it. A Luger, perhaps?"
"Just the weight of the knowledge of ages," Falk assured them. "And, besides, knocking that Frenchman out with a book was the action of an elderly man of the cloth in panicky circumstances. Shooting him would have robbed him of any hope of repentance and redemption, as well as being a terrible shock to poor young M Lacroix."
"When you put it like that... " Miles grinned at him. "A very timely intervention. Thank you, Father."
Some could have been deceived into thinking Miles didn't have a care in the world, but Briers knew him far too well for that. There were signs - including just the barest tightening of the skin at the corner of his eyes - that he was putting on a brave face. More worryingly, Briers had noticed how still and upright his stance was and how shallow his breathing.
"Yes, I wonder how much longer you could have held out, Millie?" he asked.
"Millie was magnificent," Lady Siward said, her eyes glowing with pride and relief. She shot a knowing glance at Briers and added, "But that man did hit very hard. My dear, I wish you would let me be sure you are not too hurt."
Miles flushed and offered them both a small appeasing smile. "Sore ribs, is all. I'll soak in a bath tonight and be right as rain. I promise you, it's nothing. An inconvenience."
Briers grunted. "I'd be happier if I could check it out myself," he admitted. "But now is hardly the time. Falk, would you do us the honour of joining us for supper? It seems the least we can do."
"Thank you for the kind offer, but I don't believe I will." Falk smiled. "I can watch your back more effectively from a distance. In fact I think I should probably return to my compartment and make sure that Lacroix is all right. He is a brave young man. Tap on my window if you leave the compartment - for any reason - and I will follow on."
"And which compartment is that?" Miles asked.
"Next door, of course," Falk said, with one of his sweeter smiles.
"And what are your intentions?" Miles demanded, hackles obviously on the rise. Briers had to admit that the thought of Falk's proximity made him feel a little faint.
"For you and your lady mother, nothing drastic. I'm indulging my curiosity as to why intelligence agents all over the Balkans were thrown into a panic last night and this morning." Falk met Briers eyes, his own cool grey gaze as candid as Briers had ever seen it. "For the moment, at least, you can count on my support."
"But that may change?" Miles demanded.
"It may, depending upon circumstances," Falk gave them all a sunny smile as he got up. "Shall we say 'truce'? Until we reach Budapest? I hear the cellar at the Grand Royal Hotel is very good."
Briers bit back an exclamation and nodded. "A truce - and thank you, Falk."
"My pleasure," Falk said and left the compartment.
#
They sat in silence until they heard the slam of the neighbouring compartment door, then Emily sighed and said, "So that's another threat scotched. Well done, my dears."
"Hardly," Miles sounded miserable. "That's one of the most dangerous men I know, even - and I'm sure Briers won't mind me saying this - counting present company. I was on the lookout in the dining car and looked right past him."
"So did I." Briers hated having to admit that. He should have been more careful - but Falk was often hard to spot. "Even the way he eats soup is different. But still, he's on our side for the moment, as much as anything because he doesn't want anyone else to get whatever information you're carrying, Lady, S. In our business, that's as good as it gets. Now to business. Miles, how badly are you hurt? If you've cracked a rib I need to know about it." Throwing the attacker off the train would be the least of it if Miles was really damaged.
"I've cracked a rib? It wasn't an accident. I had help! And no, I don't think so." Miles splayed his hand on his side and pressed carefully, then gave Briers a sunny smile that made him want to push the little horror's face in. "Bruised but not broken. Thank goodness we were at such close quarters he couldn't get full power behind his fist."
"Yes, thank goodness for that. But what the hell were you doing getting to close quarters anyway? You know what I've said. For God's sake, he could have broken your neck."
"Don't you shout at Millie," Emily said. "He - oh good grief - she did her best in what was a very difficult situation. That idiot was going to throw me off the train! He had some confederates waiting, he said, and seemed quite prepared to put a bullet into Millie to ensure my compliance. I'm sure if you had been here you'd have waited and taken the first opportunity offered as well."
"Yes, but I'm not knee high to a rabbit and I weigh rather more than a damp hanky." To his alarm Briers heard his voice crack. "You're not built for fisticuffs, Miles - dammit, Millie. You should have just called for help."
"And he'd have shot me in the knee, which I suspect would have hurt a damned sight more than a punch in the belly. I did what I could with what was to hand." Miles glared. God, he looked magnificent when he was angry. "But the thing that bothers me much more than not being up to your standard in a fistfight - "
"I didn't say that!"
"You didn't need to! It bothers me that the entire intelligence community east of Vienna is on the lookout for us and just how in the holiest of hells did Falk know to insert himself not just onto this train but into the next compartment and to make a booking for the Grand Royal in Budapest? I suspect the security of your office has been compromised and - "
Briers, who had come to that conclusion himself but didn't want to admit it, interrupted. "There's no doin
g anything about it just now. We'll be stopping at the border soon, so I'll get word to them then. It shouldn't be long now."
When Miles was annoyed his cheek muscles twitched, normally the prelude to him giving Briers both barrels, and Emily must have been recognised the signs, too, because she put her hand on Miles's arm and said, "I for one need to - er - visit the conveniences. There's something very unsettling about having a gun pointed at one's lunch and I would like the opportunity for a wash and brush up. So, if you two could please stop squabbling ... "
Which put an end to Briers's hope that he might be able to check Miles for injuries. "Very well," he said, and decided to start making amends. "Miles, could you check the corridor? If it's clear, go ahead - and I'll follow with Emily."
Miles shot him one furious look but got up, still moving gingerly, and went ahead.
#
They made quite a procession, Briers reflected, as he followed Miles and his mother along the corridor to the WC. As agreed he tapped gently on the door of Falk's compartment, but moved on immediately and positioned himself by an open window. He busied himself with his pipe and kept an eye on the passers-by. Miles murmured something to his mother and they both laughed. It struck Briers how much alike they were in appearance and how silly this whole business was. If they had both been women they would have been able to go into the fairly spacious WC together - he'd seen that happen frequently and had heard the hushed discussions and giggles as they did whatever they did. But if they had both been women Briers wouldn't have been looking forward to their stopover in Budapest nearly as much.
"Have you a light?" Falk leaned against the window at Briers side. He withdrew a cigarette from his silver case and tapped the end on the edge of it. Briers grinned at the familiar affectation and offered a box of matches.
"Thank you," Falk said and lit the gasper, then continued in smooth unaccented Serbian. "I hope your young lady has taken no harm from her experience?"